Reprisal
by Metroid13
Summary: For every action there is a disproportionate response. "Deleted scene" from Samson and Delilah.


**Reprisal**

Author's Note: This goes without saying, but I own none of the mentioned subject material. This is essentially my version of a "deleted scene" from last night's episode. This acknowledges the events of FiR and its sequel.

Couldn't sleep. Or wouldn't sleep. It was hard for Derek to tell, everything leading up to the point of him resting his head back against the pew seeming to accrete together in his mind, forming some complex _thing_ he couldn't wrap his mind around.

The car blown up. The house burnt down. Oh, there were two bastards inside. One was burnt up beyond recognition, the other a nameless shmoe from behind an internet cafe counter. Thugs. Sarkissian. Great. Derek extracted a pistol from the shmoe's stiff fingers and went downstairs. No John. No Sarah. Window broken. They were gone. Derek collected the hard drive, having nothing else left. He lounged around outside, unable to think as the house crackled and burned. The fire department arrived. Stole some gear. There was Charley. Explained shit to Charley. Insulted Charley.

Well. They followed their noses a bit and found a warehouse. Found the Connors and Cameron. Talked to Sarah. Talked to John. Tried to blow up Cameron.

Derek shook his head. _Tried._ They had their chance, maybe their only chance to destroy that thing once and for all... and... and... _he_ brought her back. Risked everything for nothing. Oh, yes. So intimidating, the way he pointed the gun, oh, right. All balls now, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He risked his life to bring her back. At the time Derek had no idea why. The facts seemed pretty straightforward. She blew up a bit. She went bad, exactly as she had said twenty years into the future. They had every reason to finally destroy her in a thermite blaze.

Yet he saved her. Fixed her, obviously, but who the fuck cared? Derek certainly didn't. She was still around to be a liability. John had still risked his life. And in doing so, pointed a weapon at his uncle. Disregarded his mother. _Pointed a weapon at his uncle. _

Y'know, in all his years of knowing John Connor, _nothing_ had happened quite like that. It didn't fill Derek's heart with joy. It bothered him. Bothered him greatly.

It was time for a lesson, and that was certainly something Derek could get his head around.

--

Turned. Turned. Turned. He looked the same in every direction he tried, as he watched himself through the mirror. Long hair? Wimpy hair? Gone, replaced with a crew cut. It was stupid, John realized that. It represented nothing important. After all of that, though... in his head, he _needed_ some release. He could barely think. His head didn't hurt, which was weird. And still, coherency in his thoughts refused to arrive. Cut your hair. Slam a knife into the table. Everything was different now, John realized. All different. He was fundamentally changed.

That moment of synapse. Sarkissian, the hard drive. He knew what happened, and yet here he was, trying to piece it together like some convoluted puzzle. What really happened? What were his thoughts? He couldn't think about it yet, not entirely.

_She did everything wrong. Broke it. Destroyed it. How do I look at her again? She killed... killed... _he couldn't think about it. _She was wrong about Cameron. She wanted to kill her. But no. I was right. _

Needed release. Required. Cut your hair. What did it mean? Nothing. Everything. Meaningless juxtapositions, and yet he felt satisfied with it all the same. It was all he had right now.

He pushed himself up, looking around the tiny storage room he'd been sleeping in. Isolation. He couldn't take that anymore. Maybe talk to Cameron. Derek. Not Sarah. Maybe not Cameron, either. He pushed the door open and walked out into the darkened hall, taking a brief moment to check around. It was a modest place for a modest man. The minister was gone for now. John didn't know where he went. There was the house, and then the church part. Cameron was in the church part, staring up at Jesus as he hung from his cross. She'd been there for a while. Some spiritual shit, maybe. Who knew what kind of side effects his amateurish repairs could have had, not to mention the whole episode she'd gone through to begin with.

What was that like for her, anyway? Was there a tiny voice in her head crying out the whole time, saying that what she was doing was wrong? How much willpower did they have? How much was all programming? Evil switch to good switch, was that all that was possible with them? All they were capable of?

_I love you, and you love me._

Freak. The last part was true, and that was why it hurt. Freak. Weakling. Emo. Mama's boy.

He'd always be a freak. There was a chance to fix the other three, though, and he was gonna fucking take it.

John walked out into the church proper, coughing slightly. He could barely stand to look at her. Several days ago, and he stormed a compound to rescue her from crazies. Amazing how things change. He needed her, and yet here he could barely stand to be in her presence. She was his proverbial queen on the chess board. Sacrificing the queen hardly comes easily. And it comes even less easily when you love your queen.

"Hello, John."

John blinked. He didn't shake, jump, or twitch in surprise. His ears were still ringing from everything that had happened today. A simple voice was nothing. He just blinked.

"Hey."

Cameron looked back at him. Paradoxically, she looked just as striking as ever with her face all fucked up with burns and scars. For some reason he hated that.

"Derek wanted to see you. He's outside."

"Oh." Another lecture. Another nod-session. Maybe he should just go back to bed. "Alright."

"I'm sorry I hurt you today," Cameron said.

John's midsection still felt like it'd been snapped into many tiny pieces, but he supposed he couldn't blame her for doing shit that she couldn't control. "It's okay. I'm going now."

She stared at him as he walked away, and as he packed all his worries into a box, leaving them to fester and grow.

--

The church was on some back street, not well traveled by the mainstream commute. The only cars coming through here were shortcut seekers and the occasional family looking for the services provided around here. Derek could basically see why the Connors had chosen it, although by Sarah's description of today's events, the seclusion here did them little good.

It'd do _him_ good, though. He tapped his fingers softly against the handle of his Glock. And then he stopped, because he didn't like the sound it made, altogether too loud, too distracting. This place was secluded, but L.A. had millions of people in it, all on some business or another. Derelicts walking around, midnight executives, workers... He didn't want to be seen by anybody as he waited at the side of the building, watching the front entrance intently.

Could be an hour. Could be a minute. Derek knew John would wake up eventually, though. He wouldn't be able to sleep. It just wouldn't happen.

He took in a slight breath, held it for a few seconds, released. Christ. You couldn't get away with that shit, what John had done today. It pissed Derek the hell off. Such stupidity couldn't be allowed to go on without a response. If it came to this cloak and dagger bullshit, then all the better. The kid didn't respond to talking. He was a ball of emotion and he'd shut everyone out. How to get in? Bust in. Throw open the doors, toss the guards away.

Be violent. He didn't want to hit his nephew, but there you go. Had to temper that at least with... ah.

Derek could barely see it, but there he was. The doors came wide open and John stood there for a few seconds, scanning the area silently before he walked out. Derek hunched over and started to walk, hugging the walls, sticking to the darkness as much as he could.

"Derek?"

Not a direct address. A call. He could barely see in the pitch of the night.

_Go slowly enough and he'll go back inside, Derek. He's probably expecting a trap by now. _

He picked up the pace a little, rounding the bend, coming towards the door now.

"Hey, Derek? Derek!"

Derek holstered the pistol and outstretched his arms slightly. Palms out. John was shifting uncomfortably on his feet, looking around with a certain intensity now. Derek held his breath...

And released. John's head turned and focused in on what he probably assumed to be a large, muscular, and frankly frightening looking figure stalking toward him in the darkness. He stared dumbly for about a second before turning to the door. Derek sprang up and pushed the thing shut with a slam.

"Der-!"

Derek pushed himself off from the wall, holding his right arm out rigid as his left went around to John's side. John tried to lurch back to avoid but he was too slow. The resistance fighter smacked a hand over the teenager's mouth and pushed him against the church wall with his left.

"Sorry about that." Derek spoke quietly into John's ear, pushing him harder. The boy yelled. It was nothing but a murmur against Derek's hand. When he realized that that wouldn't work, he started to struggle, wiggling and trying to shove his way out of the deadlock. Derek tightened his grip on John's head and pushed him further against the wall. Enough so that it hurt, hurt _bad_. John let out a loud gasp of pain and quit. He went very still. Very silent. Waiting.

Derek said nothing for a little while, preferring to let this recent turn of events lay there out in the open, so John could consider it. He stiffened up for a little, going all tense in his muscles, waiting for a lapse in Derek's grip that would let him break free. That never came. John slackened after a while. His breath came in short at first, then regular, relaxed, albeit strained. He was waiting as much as Derek was. Interesting.

Brutal. Quick and efficient. What a loving uncle, eh? This was the guy you could come to with your problems, right? This, Derek thought, was the man John was supposed to feel comfortable with as a rule. Derek had felt comfortable with _his_ uncle. They went fishing sometimes. Derek never caught anything, not once, but his uncle told him that he'd get one eventually. Some day. That made Derek feel good.

Such a turn-around. What a perfect antithesis to his assumed familial role.

Fuck it. Derek never planned on being an uncle. He was a soldier first, second, and last, more than anything else.

"You're probably wondering about all this," Derek said, his voice considerate, casual. "And all I wanna do is explain something to ya. Can you handle that for five minutes?"

John did nothing. Derek rolled his eyes and pulled back his left arm, making a fist with the hand. He compensated by pushing his entire body against John's back, pinning him onto the wall.

Then Derek slugged him in the stomach. John cried out. Another muffled sound, barely audible to anyone who wasn't within five meters. His entire face seemed to crumple up as he winced, eyes shutting like vaults. Derek didn't deign to imagine the pain he was probably in. He just waited for a few seconds as the boy recovered and he spoke up again.

"Can you handle that?"

John nodded.

"Okay. I'm gonna explain a concept to you, John. Military concept. It's called reprisal." He kept his hand balled into a fist, waiting to strike again. John, slightly hunched, just stood there. His eyes watched Derek carefully. "You're playing for keeps in war. You kick his ass before he kicks yours. But let's say he kicks you ass around first before you get that chance. What do you do? Why, John, you respond. A reprisal, direct and disproportionate to the preceding attack. You want it to overwhelm and scare so much that the enemy doesn't _dare_ get it in his head to try that bullshit with you again."

"With robots?" Derek shook his head, smirking. "Doesn't work. They don't mind how many casualties they get, they just keep pumpin' outta the factories with guns in their hands. You can't shock them into submission, into not trying the same old tactics. That's why reprisal works best against other humans. That's something you learn on a small scale, between yourself and your fellow bands'a grungy, disgusting, louse infested rebels, John. You learn best in the tunnels. Let's say someone steals your food. You kick his teeth in. He rapes your girl, you kill him. It goes on and on, John. You can apply reprisal to... just about anything."

Alright. Good time. He lashed out with his fist again, catching John in the stomach again. He moaned this time, slumping forward, like his limbs couldn't support him any longer. Derek kept him steady.

"Today, you pointed a pistol at me, John. A loaded weapon. You would have shot me, your MOTHER with _this_..." he unholstered the Glock and pressed it against John's temple. Where everything else had failed to faze the teenager, _this_ got to him. His eyes widened and there came a certain shiny quality to them. He uttered a primal, barely intelligent sound of terror and stiffened all over as the metal touched his head. "...gun, John. Why? _Why?_ Well, for the robot, of course! Were you fucking thinking straight? Do you _realize _how much you were fucking risking there when we would have been better off destroying her completely?! No, of course you don't. You don't. You don't understand. All's you see is a... a fucking pretty face, your own personal _hot_ bodyguard, John, that you can fawn over and _she protects you_. That's a fucking good deal, right? Win-win situation."

"You don't understand. You saw too much in her about what was fake and not enough about what she _really is. _I said this before, and I'll fucking say it again. You're going to die, John, if you keep doing shit like this." He shoved John again, and this time he let John collapse against the building, groaning and writhing. Derek bent forward to keep his mouth covered. "You'll die. That was a suicide fucking decision, and if I have to beat the living _crap_ out of you to make you realize that, if Sarah can't bring herself to do it, then so be it. So fucking be it."

--

Hurt. A lot. Not that important. His body felt like it was made of glass, but he could survive it. Hadn't shattered yet.

John laid there on the ground, absently twisting his hands around some grass. Pluck, pluck. Derek finished speaking, and he grunted as he removed his hand from John's mouth. Should he have bit the guy? Maybe. Taste the blood.

"Good lesson," he said mildly.

He blinked and raised his hand up to Derek. _Help me up. _Derek grunted again, lowering his hand. He looked grim as hell, and sort of shamed, John was guessing. But he'd made his point. Got that out of the way. He could afford to feel shame.

John stared at him for a few seconds and clasped his hand into Derek's. Derek pulled. John pulled back.

"Mother-"

Derek flew to the ground, smashing his head against the wooden surface of the church wall with a dull crack. John sprang up on his knees and grabbed the Glock 17 out of Derek's jeans. Derek lashed his hands out to try and bring his nephew back down with him, but John dodged out of the way and backed up.

All right. John turned his eyes down tersely and checked the pistol, skillfully drawing the magazine out-...

Oh. There was no magazine. Thing was empty.

"Ha," John said, almost admiring. Derek hadn't even gone against his own point by using the pistol. Smart thinking. All intimidation, no danger. And it worked, too. John hissed and tossed the pistol onto the grass and walked over to Derek. He was already getting up, half crouched, a splotch of barely regarded blood on his forehead. Stared at John with something close to admiration, something also close to hatred. Hatred because he was being bested.

John extended his hand, completing this circle that they'd drawn.

--

They sat at the table, silent for a while. John very much doubted he'd be able to feel much of his stomach without breaking down and collapsing tomorrow. It felt like ice.

Derek had a bit of a headache.

They stared at one another for a while, in confluence with their silence.

Nothing lasts so long.

"You can expect more of that, John, if you keep this bullshit up," Derek said, speaking very slowly, very cautiously, very coherently. "Think of it as a favor from me to you."

"Or what," John said. He smirked. "I'll die?"

Derek nodded.

John leaned forward. "I saved Cameron. I pointed a gun at you while doing it. And if I had to do the same thing all over after this? After what you did to me just now? I'd still do it. I'm no one's bitch anymore."

"You're no one's bitch," Derek repeated. "But you _are_ an idiot."

"If that's what it takes."

Derek laughed. "Just keep it in mind. You can do that, right?"

John shrugged.

Derek sighed. He'd made his point, only to have it immediately turned around and changed by John, almost in the blink of an eye. Intimidation wasn't gonna work, Derek could see that as he got up from the table. There might well be many more midnight beatings in John's future, but Derek somehow doubted they were gonna make much of a difference.

He felt really old all of a sudden.

"Sorry I pounded you," he said absently.

"It doesn't matter," John said. "You're still my uncle."

Derek paused, mulling over that for a second. "Huh. Yeah."

That had to do for now. Had to think about tomorrow and what was coming next.


End file.
